


The Art of War

by BridgesBurned



Category: Holby City
Genre: Elinor Lives, F/F, non-canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgesBurned/pseuds/BridgesBurned
Summary: Bernie's got a fun trip in mind! Serena might need some convincing. There might be some other issues...Thanking my beta @MidLifeLez kindly (any mistakes, particularly of grammar, are definitely my own).





	1. Laying Plans

It starts as something of a joke between them; or at least, that’s what Serena thinks, at first, when Bernie begins talking about the two of them going on a military history tour together, and declares she already has a preliminary itinerary.  
  
There’s a hint of the true British eccentric about her, now and again, Serena considers, in those moments when Bernie appears, say, to engage in an at least semi-serious conversation with Jason about installing a miniature steam railway in the back garden; enthuses over the less-than-breaking-news of Ancient Rome or the Aztecs in the latest BBC History magazine; starts musing aloud, during a discussion of stormy weather, about how to tie a particularly complicated knot.  
  
“Isn’t that a navy thing?” Serena asks.  
  
Bernie frowns at her.   
  
“As opposed to an army thing”, Serena adds. “ _Soldier._ ”

“It’s not,” Bernie says, but the mild flush on her cheeks is not from her own inadvertent wordplay, but from the manner Serena has of playing with Bernie with her choice of words, such as that last one; and her tone: low, suggestive, at once bringing to mind so much time spent in Serena’s bed with Serena murmuring what she wants and how she wants it. Or not saying, and Bernie knowing, just the same.

Bernie has told Serena before, of course, that, being an army medic is a non-combatant role. They were there, when it came down to it, to patch people up, not to put the holes in them in the first place. 

“Wouldn’t really call myself a ‘soldier’...”

Serena raises an eyebrow and affects puzzlement. “Surely _everyone_ in the army is a soldier of sorts?”

Bernie’s never quite had all of this with anyone else. Her relationship with Serena, just a few months old, has felt, somehow, like coming home. From their earliest days of finally, actually being _together_ , with a rush of passion and feeling that had startled them both, there has been warmth, and love, and such a huge amount of mutual respect and admiration. They can sit in companionable silence and each feel delighted and happy in the closeness of the other. They can go out for dinner and talk for hours, still, and even now, find topics that make them both laugh to the point of crying.

And… yet.

There are other…

Things.

After Bernie had saved Elinor’s life, against all the odds and against all protocol, performing surgery on the daughter of her partner — their relationship not officially yet reported to Human Resources on the appropriate form, even though pretty much everyone in the hospital, including the porters, half the patients and everyone in the emergency department, already knew they were a couple — they had finally agreed to Henrik’s suggestion that they get some rest other than napping in the chairs at Elinor’s bedside.

It had taken an hour to persuade them, but they had gone: Bernie had driven them back to Serena’s home, and they had pretty much fallen through the door together, exhausted. They found, though, that when they made their way to bed neither of them could sleep, and so for a time they had lain just there together, holding each other, wordlessly, against the world.

Bernie had, not for the first time, Serena thought, achieved the near-impossible. With a shudder, she tried not to contemplate the other, parallel universe in which Bernie _hadn’t_ been the brilliantly inspired surgeon who had somehow recognised the bleed on Elinor’s brain, made the call, and the cut, and relieved the pressure, given Elinor at once a sizeable scar and the gift of _dozens_ more years to be the aggravating, much-loved terror that even her mother had to concede she could be “at times.”

(“Bang goes me shaving my head for graduation,” Elinor says later, peering in the mirror at her hairline.

 “All the best people have scars,” Serena assures her. And: “What?! _Shave your head?!”_ )

Bernie, trembling, was coming to realise how devastated she herself would have been if the unthinkable had happened: if Serena had lost Elinor. In that moment, some time after midnight, she and Serena wrapped up in each other, Bernie hadn’t felt fearless. Or fantastic. And so it was Serena who had pushed down her own terror, reached her arms around Bernie, comforted _her,_ kissed along her jaw, and not said a word, not until early morning.

Serena rose early, and called the hospital. Elinor was stable, Morven told her. “And recovering very well, she’s getting better all the time. What an amazing job Bern —  _Ms Wolfe_ , did.”

“I love you,” is the first thing Serena says when she gets back in the bed. And, “ _Thank you_ ”, in a tone that Bernie has never in her life heard from anyone, not the parent of any patient, not any comrade out in the field.

And then it had been hot tears, from both of them, finally some kind of release, and Serena kissing Bernie hard, meaningfully, the meaning different to any other time before, and it had happened without thinking, without speaking: they had made a fevered and dazed love absent any discussion beforehand or analysis after the fact. Serena had moved herself into Bernie’s lap, gripped Bernie’s taut shoulders, and gasped when Bernie suddenly entered her. She had been tighter than usual, her body tense, and Bernie’s fingers had stretched her. Just the way Serena had wanted. Just the way Bernie had known she did. Serena murmured her love’s name over and over as they moved together, and all day back at Holby, felt where Bernie had been inside her, had only forgotten the sensation when Elinor had woken up, ahead of schedule, demanding to know why she had such “a terrible bastard headache.”

And so it is that sometimes, the deep trust between them allows them frenzies of passion that Serena had thought were long behind her. Even her recent rendezvous with the likes of Robbie had been, by and large, she must admit, simply to scratch an itch; however well that itch had been scratched at the time, she could not compare agreeable fucking to this soaring, carefree, heartfelt love-making with no shame, no guilt, no worry after the fact, all of which reminded her of her early days of being in love, at ages that began (incredibly) with a 2, or perhaps a 3; before hurt had largely replaced joy as the primary emotion evoked by thoughts of sex and romance.

Bernie was, of course, the first woman Serena had been with, but Serena didn’t think that was the reason. She herself wasn’t, after all, a lesbian, though Bernie, she thought, probably was (Bernie herself hadn’t quite said it in those terms as yet, and Serena had not pressed the issue). No, it was something else. Serena struggled for the words. She thought she probably didn’t have them. They understood each other so well… but ugh, no, _how bland_. That didn’t even begin to convey it.

They were, at once, deeply ( _hopelessly_ , _helplessly,_ Serena thought, even before she saved my daughter’s life) in love, and yet still blessed with that _undeniable sexual chemistry._ Well, yes, that was a little closer, but no. _Still not right_.

Serena felt exasperated with her own vocabulary and turn of phrase. What was between them was _(damn it!),_ it was… just what happened. With each other…. She had decided to give up. It couldn’t really be explained or described, so much as wanted. And  _done_.

Back in the present, Bernie gives a slight shrug. “Hmm… I _suppose_. Of course, I was an _officer_...” She steps forward slightly to close the gap between them and pulls Serena in closer, as she slides two strong hands up along the curves of Serena’s waist, and back. Bernie now holds her with a tender firmness that has Serena almost gasp at the pressure, the promise, the need she can immediately feel in herself, in the other woman whose touch has sent a jolt down her spine and down through to the core of her, to a place where she now feels empty, bereft, needy and yet open. 

“Oh, of course.” Serena inclines her head, nuzzles Bernie’s neck, kisses her there, hears the slight gasp of pleasure that Bernie always gives when Serena does that, however much Bernie is acting like she is in charge, and smiles into Bernie’s skin . “Sorry, darling. I suppose you want to be addressed by your proper rank. What was it?”

Serena pulls her head back to look Bernie in those surprisingly brown eyes, which somehow often take her aback, even when she’s expecting them.

“Lieutenant Sergeant? Or something like that...”

Serena’s smile is altogether extremely, deliberately, provoking, as if she hadn’t been a little already, and as if Bernie hadn’t been steadily moving them into Serena’s bedroom as they talked and bantered and exchanged brief, fierce kisses, and as if Bernie doesn’t now part-lift, part-push Serena back onto the bed with deliberate care and purpose.

“Demoted...” Bernie murmurs, beginning to trail her kisses down Serena’s chest. “In my own bed...”

“Still... oh...!” Bernie has pushed a hand down Serena’s bra to cup her breast, before falling upon her, licking and sucking and, _oh god_ , nipping. “Still...” Serena manages, “officially... _ah!_ ”

She gasps as Bernie pulls as much of her breast into her mouth at once as she can, then, with a couple of muttered curses, slides one hand underneath Serena’s back to unhook the pesky bra, which is now pushed aside. “Mhmm,” Bernie says, happier now the offending item no longer restricts her access, but then again, it’s not enough, and she is already beginning to unbutton Serena’s blouse, realising she wants Serena entirely naked, splayed out for her, as quickly as she can get her that way. 

“Still…” Serena tells her, still trying to finish her thought, but breathing harder now as Bernie is becoming more deliberate in pulling off her clothes, in moving to position Serena how she wants her.

“Officially, _my_ bed...” Serena manages at last, and is rewarded with Bernie frowning, glaring, and using two strong hands to push open Serena’s now bare legs, and slide herself between them. 

The frowns, and the glares, and the being woman-handled are, of course, all part of the fun. 

“Dear oh dear, “ Bernie tells her, “such insolence to a _superior_ officer...”  
  
“We’re equals, don’t forget. I’ll thank you, I’m not some squaddie you can boss around, _Major_ ,” Serena says, regaining her breath a little as Bernie’s caresses reach her hip, allowing her to sort-of think and breathe, at least for a moment; for the next, Bernie is directly appreciating how wet she is, how ready — a _marvel_ , Bernie thinks, how _marvellous_ , Serena thinks, and: yes, darling, _yes_ , as Bernie takes her time, applies gentle pressure to Serena’s clit, moves down to kiss and lick and graze her teeth against Serena’s inner thigh, investigates her carefully and thoroughly before pressing gently, tentatively, tortuously, beautifully, lovingly, _everything, everythingly, every single word, damn it…._ right at the entrance to her with two hard, firm, strong and yet delicate fingers. Bernie asks the question with her eyes and ses the answer in Serena’s own, and god, the woman is an angel in how she asks permission to fuck me sometimes! Serena exclaims, but only to herself, because the sounds between them for the moment are simple gasps of delight on each side as Serena experiences the simple, needed, craved, but _oh-so-glorious_ when it comes, pleasure of Bernie inside her.

Yes. There. _That._ That. _That._ God. It’s ecstasy. For both of them.

It’s the _concept_ as much as the action itself, that does it for Serena. Of course she loves the physical feeling, Bernie sliding into her with her hands or a toy or her tongue, but she enjoys just as much, the knowledge that Bernie is _in her_.

 _Yes._ Having Bernie _in her_ is so necessary, so... thrilling, so... again, Serena wants to find the words, struggles. She isn’t sure there are ones she has learned. She has enjoyed being filled before, of course; sees that as a natural part of her sexuality, and penetration has always been part of her sexual routine, even with herself, but there’s _something_ about wanting Bernie so very much to be  _there_ and feeling her _there_ and then, feeling how much Bernie herself clearly likes to be inside her.

“Yessss,” Bernie is hissing as she slides in and out, even though Serena is the one getting slowly, deliberately, blissfully fucked into oblivion in the late afternoon. “So good,” she is saying. And other things. Bernie couldn’t tell you what they were. She doesn’t know she is saying them.

At some point, and Serena couldn’t tell you where or when in the great ocean of bliss Bernie is steering them across, Bernie manages to get something of her own back, with the use of “Doctor”, instead of the correct, consultant-level, reversion to “Ms.” But there isn’t much time to think about that, as it turns out, because Bernie is now becoming a little more frenzied ( _yes darling, do, do, take it all out on me, I want you to…)_ , moving her hips as she slides her hand and Serena is gasping.

 _Fuck me, fuck me._ Does she think it, or say it? Serena doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. She’s embodying that sentiment with every nerve ending she possesses, anyway, and in how she moves, pushing herself against Bernie and trying to get more contact, _everywhere_ , trying to get Bernie closer and deeper. Serena can’t help but be demonstrative, passionate, and Bernie is driven to manipulate Serena this way and that with her own greater strength, move the other woman all over the bed, pull Serena into her lap, roll her over onto her back, and get on top of her again.

“Yes, Bernie,” Serena cries, as Bernie’s thumb glides over her clit again, and her fingers pump in and out of her. The sudden grief when Bernie pulls out of her. The overwhelming delight when she moves back in again.

“You forget yourself,” Bernie growls in Serena’s ear, not letting up for a second in pushing Serena over the edge.

“Oh... yes. _Major Wolfe_ ,” Serena corrects herself, bites her lip and then smiles into Bernie’s shoulder. “Come on, soldier. _Give it to me...”_

“ _Hell_ ,” Bernie says, Serena’s words causing her own sudden flush of pleasure, and along with her own ready wetness, she feels the expansion of the horizon of their love-making as a ready widening of her lover around her hand.

It’s not always the answer, but right now, she thinks, it’s the right thing to do, to slide a third finger inside, and her instincts are confirmed when she is met by Serena’s ready gasps of “yes, yes, like _that_.”  And Bernie knows it is okay, and she lets go, allowing herself to lose control in a place she knows she can.

It isn’t about being wild, or rough, but about just not having to think anymore, to just _do_ and _feel._ And Serena likes it when Bernie does this; she craves it, in fact, likes that she can be this for her, because it’s not about Bernie dominating her, or anything like that, but about Bernie giving over the control to Serena’s desires, about a point when they both trust that Serena’s body knows what is best for both of them. Bernie is guided by Serena’s body, and sometimes what it wants surprises both of them, but it’s never wrong. Serena enjoys her own wetness, how open she knows she is, feels she is pulling Bernie right in and pushing her out, and she laughs a little, bucks her hips harder, and Bernie gets, of course, the right idea, keeps the right pressure, the right pace.

“You love fucking me, don’t you,” Serena murmurs.

“You love getting fucked, don’t you?” Bernie answers..

“Only by you,” Serena tells her, to an appreciative noise in response.

Serena’s climax starts to gather pace on the edges of her consciousness, and then in fact it comes hurtling in faster than she anticipated, and she comes hard on Bernie’s hand with a shout from somewhere deep inside herself, and decides to ignore the trembles in her legs, the sudden desire to curl up on Bernie’s chest and let herself slide off into pleasured, fevered, dreams. Instead, she immediately press her own hand against Bernie, who’s somehow still wearing her trousers. Why, daft woman? Well, yes, unzip the — yes, let’s get rid of these, _silly things_ , the underwear too, nice though it is, something white and slightly lacy, _that’s nice Bernie_ , but it’s got to go.

Serena begins to caress Bernie, silencing with a kiss her protests that Serena can “just relax” if she wants. She knows how slick and inviting Bernie gets from fucking her, how much making love to Serena gets Bernie off, and how hard and fast Bernie herself will come right after making Serena come. It’s not the only orgasm she wants to give her lover today, but it’s one of them, that rapid climax right after Serena’s own, and it’s building already, as Serena can feel, as she strokes her fingers along Bernie. Bernie’s close already, just from touching her. _Delicious._

Serena doesn’t feel she has Bernie’s skill in the “Sapphic sexual” department, not yet, but she has enthusiasm, a willingness to learn, and a deep and abiding affection paired with an overwhelming need, right in this moment, to damn well bring Bernie Wolfe off. Which ought to suffice.

“Yes, darling, yes,” Serena gasps as after only a few moments of gentle pressure, after she’s barely touched her at all, Bernie cries out against her, heart beating wildly in her chest (or is that Serena’s own?), ripples of pleasure pulsating against Serena’s fingers. 

“Oh fff... Jesus!!” Bernie cries out as Serena takes a sudden and inspired initiative, doubles-back, and circles her fingers around Bernie’s clit, encourages, coaxes, a second, strong, deep, powerful orgasm just a few moments after the first has subsided. This one is fiercer, much higher tempo, from somewhere much further inside Bernie, Serena thinks, and has somehow put her on some other plane.  She sees Bernie’s eyes flash and then somewhat haze over, feels all the tension in her muscles fall away. _Oh, you needed that, darling_ , Serena finds herself thinking. She’s so glad she can do this for her. She loves doing this for Bernie.

The third time, god, yes — _third time??_ Bernie thinks. _Me??_

 _Yes, you,_ Serena thinks right back. _You’re a woman, aren’t you? You’re built for this…_

The third time, then, Bernie comes when Serena drops her lips to Bernie’s clit, swipes her tongue along her, and pushes a single fingertip ever so slightly inside. Bernie tastes so strong, and wonderful. Serena likes feeling Bernie’s pleasure on her face, and she just loves breathing her in. Something she never thought she would like, had you asked her a few years ago, perhaps; and now she can’t stop wanting to put her mouth on her lover and show her how she feels, _in that particular way._ This final orgasm of Bernie’s that Serena brings about is soft, sweeping, a gentle coda to what has come before. _Now it’s done_ , Serena thinks, satisfied with the satisfaction she has brought.

Bernie is wordless, spent. Serena is delighted. As a natural manoeuvre, they wrap themselves up together, temperatures and pulses raised and racing, but gradually settling as they settle into one another. 

After a few moments, Bernie strokes the inside of Serena’s thigh, and softly says:

“Not just a navy thing, you know, not at all. I mean, the Girl Guides learn knots. I’m pretty sure I had the badge. It’s good training in one’s formative years. Just basic general knowledge, and of course, it helps if you have a good dash of common sense.”

“Really,” Serena says with a pretend groan. ”Girl Guide badges and knots… That’s what you want to talk about right now?” 

“Well, we can discuss something else if you want.”, Bernie says, continuing to stroke Serena’s thigh. “How do you feel about,” she pauses,” _submarines_?”

She feels Serena’s frown against her neck. Serena is thinking about that itinerary.

“Did you say _submarines_?” 

“I did,” Bernie nods, smiling. “I did.”  
  
  



	2. Waging War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @MidLifeLez for beta-ing again!

Serena is first to wake, blinking back to reality, realising that she isn’t, after all, twenty thousand leagues under the sea but in her own, familiar bedroom, with Lister curled up on Bernie, as has become usual, and Bernie herself, apparently still deeply asleep, holding Serena close.   
  
Serena instinctively nestles herself deeper into Bernie’s arms, as she does every time she wakes to find Bernie enveloping her. Bernie murmurs something unintelligible and gently nuzzles Serena’s neck, apparently still deep in sleep. The slightest of tremors accompanying the warmth of Bernie’s touch reminds Serena of, well, _several_ of the things Bernie’s hands had been doing the previous night. Serena can still feel Bernie, _everywhere_ ; feels marked, delightfully possessed and claimed by the other woman’s fingers, thumb, wrist, forearms… all of it, really, all of it… Serena is ever so slightly sore from how she has been handled, but not in a way that makes her the slightest bit sorry. Bernie can be a little rough at times, but nearly always when Serena wants her to be —if it’s something Bernie herself wants, if it comes from her, which is much rarer, then _god_ , Serena offers her body up for that too —but usually it’s when she _encourages_ Bernie to be, with words or movement or sounds that Bernie understands more and more, the more she hears them.

Then again, even when Bernie is so very delicate and soft and gentle, Serena can still feel where the other woman has been for hours or even _days_ afterwards. At times, Serena feels as though there is a ridge or groove that starts somewhere outside of her and continues inside, a route or path she doesn’t entirely know herself,that doesn’t always start in exactly the same place but which somehow Bernie always finds, explores, pushes into, and along, and makes her own, even if —or perhaps _because_ —it’son Serena’s own body. Serena had always thought of the act of making love as the embodiment of a deep connection; she doesn’t mean _fucking_ or _shagging_ , lots ofwhich she has also done, of course, those coarser expressions the only words for some of the mostly pleasant if meaningless sex she has had over the years, but the act of love itself, much rarer and more special, and which she had used to think of in terms of the male parts of another person and the female parts of herself, and which now she can only think of in terms of Bernie and her, her and Bernie, and what they do to and for and with each other.

They fit so well together, even though they are both female. It isn’t something Serena could have imagined, before she had met Bernie, or even in those terrifying, jaw-dropping, ground-ripped-out-from-under-her panicked moments following their first kiss, which had alternated with a sense of supreme calm that it was all going to be fine. She was simply a sexual person and had expressed her desire a slightly different way, _what was there to go crazy about?_ And then, again, there would come after a time the rising tide of fear: _but she’s a woman! And… you’re a woman!_ But, Serena would reason herself back to rationality again: it’s Bernie, you _know_ her, it was just a _kiss_ , no need to have a bloody fit about it, Campbell; pull yourself together, you’re a woman of the world. But then, _oh my god, I want her to… to…_

“Fuck me,” are the next words, really, if she is honest, but in the beginning Serena could barely think them, could barely consider that that was, if not _the_ then _a_ final destination of all their conversations and coffees and long days and nights at the hospital, and probably a key reason why she had felt so hurt when Bernie had lied to her, or why she had felt, well, _god_ _I suppose,_ _jealous!_ when she had met Marcus, and when she thought Bernie might be interested in other women… She wanted Bernie, yes, to _fuck her_. But god, how was it _even done_? She wasn’t stupid, she _could guess_ , she could bloody _Google_ , but would it actually work? _Would it really be satisfying?_ Serena had pondered, and now the thought was really laughable in the context of a deeply passionate, physical relationship in which, incredibly, she can bring Bernie great physical pleasure with her own mouth and hands moving almost instinctively, with a little bit of applying what she’s learned from having Bernie in her bed (and yes, OK, from Google too), and she’s coming harder and more often than she ever has with any previous lover, and sometimes, damn it, so _easily_.

Serena often likes Bernie deep in her, yes; it can bring a great sense of inner calm as well as an incredible, searing pleasure. But there are times when just the slightest touch from Bernie makes Serena come suddenly, fiercely, in a way that had been astonishing at first; the merest swipe of Bernie’s hard thumb, after building tension, and attention, across her clit, had had Serena gasping, grasping Bernie’s shoulders, convulsing from hips all the way up through her spine to the tip of her tongue - the tongue with which she would caress Bernie’s own before she would pull away, biting down on her own lip trying to stifle a cry that would then escape her anyway. Bernie had seemed a little surprised to render this result herself – and there Serena had been thinking at least she was doing this with someone _who knew what she was doing_ , but Bernie had seemed in a kind of wonder at all the sensations she was evoking, and not cocky, or confident, as Serena had might have guessed. Well, not right away, anyway.    
  
Back in the moment, Serena breathes out: hard but slow, and quietly. She doesn’t want to wake Bernie, not yet. It’s rare that Bernie is truly, deeply asleep. Like a cat (here, Lister rolls over and extends a paw, but shows no sign of waking), Bernie can apparently sleep anywhere, but she does so lightly, wakes at the slightest sound, and often, the merest movement, and Serena is always worried that her lover doesn’t get enough rest. As much, then, as she is tempted to take Bernie’s hand and press it against herself, against wetness she knows is building from mere thought alone, Serena pushes down the urge and tries to recall the dream that is already slipping out of reach, subsiding, disappearing into the night.

She had been trying, just a few moments ago, she thinks, to explain to Captain Nemo —who wasn’t as good-looking as she had imagined, in the flesh — that she had joined his subaquatic voyage by mistake, much as she was enjoying the ever-changing view of ocean life from out of the porthole of the cabin she shared with Bernie. A further complication was that both Elinor and Jason were along for the ride, in cabins either side of them, and, as it turned out, Edward and Liberty had joined too, and they all had to have dinner together at the captain’s table. It was fairly awkward, although the food itself was marvellous, and Serena had thought she really must ask the Captain how the chef had done the herring... not that she was the greatest of cooks, truth be told, but she was, these days, trying to improve a little, to enjoy home comforts more – now that there was someone at home to properly enjoy such comforts with.

A dream about a sodding submarine? She will blame Bernie for that. But it’s impossible to be truly cross at Bernie very often and right now, Serena is enjoying being held; although Bernie isn’t, in fact, so much bigger and taller than Serena is, they fit together as physical as well as professional equals, even if undoubtedly Bernie is a little the stronger. Bernie is a few months older than Serena, the ever-so-slightly younger woman reminds herself, lifting a hand to where she knows her latest grey hair has appeared, as glimpsed in the mirror the other day and sworn at. Bernie had told her not to stress over the grey, she was beautiful. Perhaps, Serena thinks, I will forsake the effort of colouring it and just grow the grey out completely, but she wants to look good for Bernie. _You always look amazing,_ Bernie tells her. And Bernie always makes her feel as though that’s true, even on Serena’s slightly less confident days, Bernie running her hands or tongue over Serena’s hips (surely a little bigger? _Nah,_ Bernie declares, with a shrug that conveys she doesn’t care even if they are) or her breasts (less pert these days… _Perfect!_ Bernie tells her. _Perfect size, perfect shape)_. What about the ever-increasing laughter lines on her face? Bernie kisses them. Well perhaps, after all, Serena is laughing more these days.   
  
Lister throws his head back and issues forth a quiet, hungry, still somewhat sleepy miaow, and Bernie, finally, is stirring. Bernie can sleep on the floor without covers or a pillow (Serena has found her in this position, more than once, at home and at work) but nevertheless it had taken her some considerable while to get used to sleeping with someone else in the same bed. Bernie had usually slept alone, she said; although they had been married for a quarter of a century, she had rarely been in the same time zone as Marcus, and her final attempts to “make a go of things” with him, including all matters in the bedroom department, had ended in abject failure. With Alex — Bernie had hesitated when discussing her. They had had, she said at last, “stolen moments.” _Quickies_ , Serena thought, hands down each other’s camouflage trousers in a quiet corner of a corridor or something. They didn’t usually actually _sleep_ together. They had spent a night and a day of Bernie’s home leave together, though, Bernie had revealed, at some point after which Alex had turned up at the Dunn family home, an episode Serena hadn’t yet heard all the details of, but found she wondered about. She would ply Bernie with Shiraz and try to get the details at some point. It sounded a trifle soap opera, but Serena did still wonder what had transpired. In any event, it didn’t seem that Marcus had realised exactly what was going on until he had worked at Holby for a couple of days and heard it on the hospital grapevine. _Ouch. Those bloody porters_ , Serena thought, _more rabbit than Sainsbury’s._

“Does _sir_ want his breakfast?”

Bernie, of course, addresses her first words of the day to the cat. It had been love at first sight for both of them, the first night Serena had brought Bernie home and immediately upon Bernie setting foot over the threshold —even though Lister didn’t like strangers and Bernie was, she said, usually more of a dog person. From that first evening, Lister followed Bernie everywhere: curled up on her lap, scratched at the bathroom door when Bernie took showers, sulked and fretted when she was at work.

“ _Disloyal little shit_ ,” as Elinor, who had originally chosen Lister from the local pet rescue, had put it.

Sir does indeed want his breakfast, and springs on padded feet to the floor with a squeak when he realises it’s in the offing. Bernie yawns and gets up to feed him. Serena visits the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and returns to find Bernie is back and doing push-ups.

“Well, that’s very energetic, for first-thing. Someone’s full of beans this morning.”

Bernie grins as she flips over and switches to sit-ups. “Best to get them out of the way.”

Serena nods. “Yes, absolutely. That’s what I always think, too.”

***

“So you just told Hanssen we were taking a break and would be back later?” 

Bernie nods. “Yep. At some unspecified future time.”

“And he was OK with that, was he?”

Bernie nods again. “Told us to take all the time we needed, perhaps send a postcard or a gift of some kind to the hospital, if the mood took us.”

“Well, I must say that I’m very glad I’m not CEO, and having to deal with staff wandering in and out as they please, with little or no notice…” Serena muses, aloud. Where had Jac been for all these weeks, for instance?

"And Hanssen said Jason would be fine staying with him. Of course, Elinor might need a bit of oversight given she’s still recovering from that horrible head injury, but I’m sure she will be fine at Edward’s..”

“Thank goodness all of the professional and personal is sufficiently sorted out to allow us to go on this _military tour you’re devising for us with no distractions_ ,” Serena announces, before clearing her throat slightly.

“Indeed,” Bernie agrees. “I’m just finishing planning it now. You know, you’ve got to go into these things with a strategy. Bit like a battle.”

“Hmm. Not sure I would think of a holiday in those terms…” Serena swings a leg up and over Bernie, so that she is sitting facing her, and then takes the laptop from Bernie’s hands, leaning backwards to place it on the dressing table. They are both naked and not long out of the shower, and it really isn’t, Serena thinks, the time for looking things up on computers.

“I was just…. Well. Never mind. It’s just, lots of things need a strategy,” Bernie says, beginning to run her hands up and down Serena’s back.

“Do they? 

“Take sex, for example.”

“ _I’d love to_. But you have a battle plan for bed, really?” 

“Well…” Bernie kisses Serena, before pushing apart her own knees, an action that opens Serena’s legs, either side of Bernie’s, further wide and open. “Someone’s got to drive the whole… thing…”

“This is quite the insight into the inner workings of your mind… So making love to me is waging some kind of war?” Serena arches an eyebrow.

“I suppose you could say it involves a bit of friendly fire here and there…” Bernie murmurs, against Serena’s mouth 

“Hmm,” Serena says. “You can’t reduce everything to organisation. What about  _passion_? 

“Always have to react to the circumstances, what’s going on in the field…”

Serena pushes Bernie back down on the bed.

“And the element of surprise is quite important,” Bernie agrees. She gasps as Serena moves down, flicks her tongue across Bernie’s clit and then begins to work on Bernie with her lips.

Serena had wanted to make a going down joke earlier, last night, when they were talking about submarines. The moment has passed, she thinks, damn it, and her mouth is now pleasantly full of Bernie, but she will definitely remember that one if they get into subaquatic talk again…

Bernie, meanwhile, can’t think anything except: Serena is… _there_ … she’s… _she’s…_ She doesn’t finish the thought.

Bernie hadn’t thought, pre-Serena, that she really liked someone going down on her. I mean, it was ok, it wasn’t a problem, and it could be fairly pleasant, even, but she didn’t massively see the big deal in receiving such attention, even if she liked giving it herself. Marcus had done it to her, and it was fine. Alex had done it to her, and yes, that was nice, a significant technical improvement on Marcus, unsurprisingly, really, but Bernie still found it difficult to relax and really get into it, to let herself come at her own pace. With Marcus she had, several times, and against all her feminist principles, simply faked her climax; with Alex she hadn’t needed to, but she had rushed it, she knew, in her own mind, by pushing herself along, because she hadn’t wanted to take up too much time or be too difficult, and even though Alex was good, and thoughtful, she hadn’t wanted to luxuriate in it as such, and she had reached for Alex’s fingers to speed things up now and again.

With Serena there was time, and space, and there was also astonishing enthusiasm from someone who had “never been more than friends with a woman before.” Serena, it turned out, had incredible stamina for oral sex. She simply didn’t tire, and she didn’t expect Bernie to come until Bernie was ready, and she approached the whole thing with a sense of wonder and glee, rather than obligation or benevolence. Truth be told, Bernie rather thought Serena enjoyed seeing big, macho Bernie Wolfe in this beautifully feminine position, and she was right, Serena did like to see Bernie opening up, well, yes, Serena sometimes thought, like a _flower_ and all those silly things people sometimes say, but which now she fully understood and agreed with and related to and enthused about. Bernie was really beautiful there: the lips between her legs were defined and sensitive, and reacted to the slightest pressure from Serena’s mouth. Bernie’s clit was big, not hard to find at all, in fact it positively announced itself, and grew even larger when Serena touched it with her fingers, or especially when she placed her tongue on it and moved up and down and around. Serena would have fun with it: spelt her name or Bernie’s, or wrote “AAU”, as the mood took her; invited Bernie to guess what she had written this time. Had Serena ever imagined, at any time, that she would enjoy the taste of another woman as much as she did? She had to say that she had not. Even when she had thought about _fucking_ Bernie Wolfe, she hadn’t conceived of this. She had felt confident, after sufficient research, that she could _do it_ , but she was astonished to find she revelled in it (and Bernie had to say that even though she thought Serena was indeed attracted to her, she was a little bit surprised at this particular revelation too).

Serena breathes Bernie in, pushes her face into Bernie and feels Bernie squeal and gasp. Tough army medic, Bernie was probably not, right now; but that in itself was its own delight. Serena sinks her tongue inside Bernie, laps inside her, licks up and up and up, a little down and up, until she pushes Bernie to the next level. She takes a literal breather, kisses the inside of Bernie’s thighs and, oxygen replenished, dives back into Bernie again, hears herself moaning as Bernie moans too, feels Bernie begin to tremble and quiver, the tell-tale shuddering in her legs and hips starting as Bernie’s orgasm begins to build. It will be several minutes more, Serena knows, before Bernie comes. Several more blissful minutes of persistence. 


End file.
